


hands

by veils



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: A fic about hands, A weird depiction of how to make onigiri, Aged-Up Character(s), Canon Compliant, Fluff, Hands, M/M, Mentioned Miya Atsumu, Mentioned Ojiro Aran, Mentioned Suna Rintarou, Not Beta Read, Osaaka, Self-Indulgent, Timeskip, Wax poetics about hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27797290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veils/pseuds/veils
Summary: The callouses on his hands remind him of the chipping paint on architectural buildings. Chipping paint and thick callouses symbolizes age, wearing out, yet they also show the timeless length of effort, efficiency. Keiji glances at his hands and there are callouses, too. Whether hard work leaves a mark on where Keiji's pen rests frequently or on the surface of Osamu's proximal phalange, it's shown off like a medal, a flaw perfectly shaped by achievement.( aka a fic where akaashi keiji watches osamu as he makes tuna mayo onigiri )
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	hands

**Author's Note:**

> please don't laugh at me; i wrote this while watching a five minute tutorial on how to make onigiri. i also read about the anatomy of hands but hardly incorporated the stuff i read because the story will lose its creative essence. 
> 
> thank you to my irl, kat, for giving me a bit of your envisage about hands!
> 
> also, i wrote this a day before our grades were shown. my feelings were conflicted. 
> 
> ps: this isn't technically canon compliant. i made akaashi a writer here ( he's an editor in canon ) and set the place in osaka. why? osaaka = osaka.
> 
> **CW: MENTIONS OF FOOD**

Hands, in the eyes of Akaashi Keiji, a man who creates new worlds using a pen and paper or a outdated MacBook Pro, are little trinkets of blessings the gods have offered to humankind. The brilliance, artistry and precision of these exude all of the things one can do, like the way a screen of a phone can show the output of what the device can do. 

The bones inside, like checking the details of a gem, are slimmed expertly with elongation, muscles accentuate the figures and the skin brings about the sophistication, either sophisticated with wrinkles of ancient hard work or softened dewy lines of innocence and early spark of youth. The joints make hands come off as machines. Mobility. The ability to move your finger, let it wrap around something, let it grip upon objects, upon creatures, let it sense. Hands are extensions of the body that can feel, that although we have the rest of our body ( especially the feet ) to touch anything and sense its connection with us, it's the hands that get more of the credit. 

A soft Yumi Arai plays in the restaurant of Onigiri Miya, humming mellow echoes that ricochet against the walls and kiss the staff on the cheek, which is why not a single waiter shows a taint of exhaustion. Some of them are singing along, broken tunes of award-winning singing ( this is a sarcastic paradox Keiji uses to describe how the waiters perform their very own musical movie within the confines of a small and cozy restaurant ). Then comes the owner of the shop, who reeks of young success and decade-long hard work. He often wears a cap over his brunet hair and his figure replicates the marble statues so perfectly that the statues might've replicated him inside. He smiles like the sun is crafted using the curves of his dimples and its rays come from the prominence of his pearly teeth. 

There is so much to write about Miya Osamu that Keiji tries not to fixate on other things around him but the man he spotted helping his assistant chefs how to formulate the dimsum dishes of the gods of Hyogo with precision and passion. According to him, as what Keiji overheard from their conversation, _delicacy in precision comes with expertise and passion._ That when one does not like what they are doing, expertise decays and precision dulls. 

Keiji sits close to the open kitchen, where only a barrier of a cream wall and clear window separates the actual kitchen from the dining area. He props his chin atop his palm and presses his bent elbow on the table. His plate of onigiri is wiped clean as if it had been served empty to him. There, he sees how Osamu effortlessly opens the tuna can, pouring its salmon-colored content into the steel bowl. More condiments are poured swiftly but there is still grace in doing everything with proficiency and speed. Then he mixes the tuna with the mayonnaise, and once ready, he prepares a pack of Nori seaweeds and takes out one piece of the seaweed, properly ripping three out of one sheet. Wetting the tip of his hands, swipes his middle and index finger on the salt, rubbing it all over his palms. Taking less than a handful of rice, he penetrates his fingers again to make a dent where he fills the tuna mayo filling inside. His hands are dancing now, when they mold the onigiri into a triangle without frowned effort, as if he physiological conditioned himself in creating his master dish. 

The callouses on his hands remind him of the chipping paint on architectural buildings. Chipping paint and thick callouses symbolizes age, wearing out, yet they also show the timeless length of effort, efficiency. Keiji glances at his hands and there are callouses, too. Whether hard work leaves a mark on where Keiji's pen rests frequently or on the surface of Osamu's proximal phalange, it's shown off like a medal, a flaw perfectly shaped by achievement. 

Amidst his little cinematic viewing of Miya-san (read: Myaa-sam) making tuna mayo onigiri, he finally notices that Osamu is looking at him from the window of the kitchen, smirking. He brings up his finger and taps on the corner of his chin, as if to tell Keiji that he has dirt on his lower face. Keiji flusters out of embarrassment and wipes off the surface around his mouth. Osamu's smirk morphs into a grin then he wraps the Nori around the triangular rice ball ( triangular.. Ball… how ironic ). Keiji's rational side yells at him with a volume that is higher than the decibels on the chart. _You are so embarrassing! The only chance you have enough time to admire the craft of a chef's hands and you just had to be improper about your looks!_

Nevertheless, he doesn't have to think so much of it. What he has to think about is what he will say when Onigiri Miya's owner makes his way towards him, pulling the chair across and sits on it, folded arms pressed on the table. "Hello. Did I put on a good show?" He asks and Keiji immediately blushes, sporting a chuckle to hide the sakura flowers blooming on his cheeks and tickling the bridge of his nose. Osamu laughs and waves a hand. "That was a joke. Sorry," he laughingly adds, eyes curving into crescent moons and dimples creasing his fluffy cheeks. "I see you here often. Next time I'll get you a discount for your regular visitation." 

"Ah, you don't have to," Keiji laughs back. "I overheard a conversation here before. Your brother was complaining because he didn't earn a discount even after giving your restaurant good publicity?" 

"That's on him," Osamu smirks, leaning back on the backboard of the chair, hands entwined at the back of his head. "He voluntarily did so. And Suna, too. It was Aran-kun whom I asked to do some promotion before as a jest but he took it seriously." 

And there's silence, but it's not the type of silence which unsettles both parties or the atmosphere between them. It's the comfortable silence that helps them let loose and choose between the conversation they made up in their mind to choose which one is far more appropriate to be taken into real life. Osamu leans back on the table again, taking off his cap and fixes his hair. Keiji pushes his glasses back up with a finger and continues to type on his laptop in anticipation of what Osamu wants to say. Right when he's fixing the details of his article, he stops when Osamu puts a period on his sentence. "Hey, would you like to go out sometimes? I mean, now would be good but you're busy and I'm a little stuffed today, too and—"

 _Absolutely adorable_. 

Keiji smiles as warm as the sun and softly shuts his laptop, replicating Osamu's position so their faces are inches close. This is Osamu's time to blush as red as his heart again. "Of course, Miya-san. However, do you have any idea of what my name is?" 

"Well, you see, I—"

"Akaashi Keiji," he cuts him off with a smirk. "And you must say my name with the grace of your tongue in the similar way your hands gracefully craft the shape of your onigiri," and he says this with a face contorted for a laugh. 

Osaka is fairly warm today, or maybe because someone's presence warmed the coldness of January with his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> WELL WHAT WAS THAT
> 
> thank you for reading ! and if you want to see more of my works, i'm on kyotoruins! i change usernames often and go private once in a while so you can just check my moments to read more instead of following :) 
> 
> comment down how ridiculous i was for writing this! i'll be sure to explain why the hell i wrote this. :))


End file.
